


Was it worth the wait?

by needsarevelation



Series: What are you waiting for? [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, History RPF
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gun Violence, Kissing, M/M, a litte bit of blood, because History, because we're onto The War now, because...you know, fluffy love and support mixed in with the angst, gratuitous Shakespeare references, hopefully lots and lots of angst, it's about the duel, not much but a man does get shot soooo, some religious themes, there's a bit more blood, two dorks in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-09-10 13:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8919493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/needsarevelation/pseuds/needsarevelation
Summary: 1804, WeehawkenIs this what I've been waiting for?It's all Burr can think as he stares at the pistol resting benignly in his hand, smoke curling out of the barrel.Chronicles the intertwining lives of Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton as they grow closer, fall in love, and are eventually torn apart on the dueling ground in Weehawken.This series and will have a chapter for basically every song Burr/Burr&Hamilton have (with a few extras thrown in)





	1. The World Was Wide Enough

**1804, Weehawken**

 

_Is this what I've been waiting for?_

It's all Burr can think as he stares at the pistol resting benignly in his hand, smoke curling out of the barrel. Time is frozen as he stares at the weapon and the hand that holds it, unable to understand what just happened. It's not until a hand clasps his shoulder that Burr is brought back to himself, managing to achieve a sudden moment of clarity and understanding before the reality of what he’s done overwhelms him. Burr knows it, knows it in the same way he knew that his world was changing all those years ago when he first encountered a boy who had nothing but was reaching for everything:

This is the last moment of peace he’ll have for a long time.

Then all at once his senses rush back to him. A voice, by his ear, telling him they need to go. Burr’s head snaps up and the pistol falls from his hand when he sees him laying on the ground, the doctor and Pendleton kneeling besides him.

_Hamilton._

Burr rushes towards him, his brain now consumed entirely by the need to get to him, to say--

to say--

That he's sorry. That he's not sorry. That he thought Hamilton would shoot, that he never wanted to kill him, that he's wanted to kill him since the day they met, that Burr never thought he would actually be able to kill Hamilton even if he tried; the man has a way of dodging death that makes one inclined to believe in guardian angels. Burr doesn't know what he wants, _needs,_ to say, but he feels the urge nonetheless. He'll know what when he reaches Hamilton.

But as he runs towards him, just when he gets close enough to see the dark blood spreading across Hamilton's shirt, awful against the crisp white of the fabric, just when he can see Hamilton's eyes, those eyes that have been tormenting him since they first arrested him on the street all those years ago when they were younger and their only enemy was the British, not each other, those eyes that are now glazed over with pain and looking up to meet his for one brief second, one second where Burr desperately tries to figure out what Hamilton is trying to say, because _by God_ , the man is always trying to say _something_ , just as what feels an awful lot like hysterical laughter starts climbing up his throat, arms grab him firmly by the shoulders, holding him back, keeping him from Hamilton.

_Hamilton._

“Let go of me! I--I need to talk to him! Let go of me!” Burr cries, fighting to get to Hamilton, to let him know--

_to let him know--_

_He needs to know--_

But it's no use. The arms are too strong, too insistent. They pull him back as the voice urges him to hurry, reminding him that while dueling may be legal in New Jersey, that won't stop Hamilton's followers from doing their utmost to see him jailed, or worse, swinging from the gallows. Despite the very logical voice and solid arms pulling him away, Burr can't help but twist and look back, struggling to catch another glimpse of Hamilton, but he's too far and there's too many people crowded around him now, and suddenly Burr realizes that that one second where their eyes met will probably be the last time he ever sees Hamilton and the realization is so strong it knocks the wind out of him. He would have fallen to his knees if it weren't for the man supporting him. He can't breathe. He can't think. He can't feel anything but the pain and regret and horror that shatter his skull and crack his ribs and tear out his lungs.

“I didn't--I didn't--I--”

Burr can't finish the sentence as he's ushered into the waiting boat. He didn't what? He knew what he was doing. He knew that Hamilton wouldn't back down when Burr challenged him to a duel. He knew what happened when you pointed a loaded gun at someone and pulled the trigger. He knew all of these things.

He knew Hamilton.

Burr doesn't remember the ride back across the Hudson. Van Ness tries to take him home, but Burr is finally able to break free from his hold. He insists that he's fine. He tells his friend to leave him. He goes to a bar. He gets drunk.

And when he goes home he sits on the floor, head leaned back against the wall with his eyes squeezed shut, and Burr remembers that day, so many years ago, when a boy with dreams in his eyes and defiance in every line of his body stopped him on the street and set them on the path to this godforsaken end.


	2. Aaron Burr, Sir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron Burr is accosted one day by a boy who talks to much and burns too bright. He can't help but feel that his path through life has been irrevocably changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this, Burr is 17 and Hammie is 18 pretending to be 16

**1773, Elizabethtown**

 The sun was setting at the end of a long day of reconnecting with former acquaintances (some of whom Burr rather wished would remain _former_ acquaintances), old mentors, and meeting his brother-in-law’s friends and business associates. Burr strolled along one of Elizabethtown’s many inlets, taking in the way the heavy rays of the dying sun cast everything in an idyllic light, breathing in the air that was finally beginning to cool off after the oppressive heat of the day. Burr wasn't one to mind the social duties required of him, but he was glad to finally have some peace and quiet.

 Little did he know it wasn't going to last long.

 “Pardon me,” a voice jerked Burr out of his musings, “Are you Aaron Burr, sir?”

 The voice belonged to a boy, around Burr’s age, who stood in front of him fidgeting with the leather strap of the book-stuffed satchel he had slung over one thin shoulder. Burr’s cool gaze took the boy in: auburn hair, slim build, posture rigidly straight with shoulders thrown back (as if the boy was prepared to take all the world had to throw at him and come out victorious), and a slight accent of his words. Most notable, though, were his eyes: deep blue and containing all the untamed energy and will of the sea.

 “That depends, who's asking?” Burr asked, having the strangest premonition that this was no chance meeting and that the strong currents of fate ran just beneath the surface of this moment.

 “Oh, sure, sir!” The boy flushed, making the freckles on his face stand out. He hurriedly stepped forward while extending a hand, “My sincerest apologies. My name is Alexander Hamilton, I'm at your service sir, I have been looking for you!” _My God he talks a lot_ . And it wasn't just the volume of the boy's, Hamilton’s, speech, but the way that the words tumbled out of his mouth one after another, undeniably well-formed and polite ( _deferential, really_ , Burr thought, suppressing a small smile at the way the boy couldn't seem to stop calling him sir), but rushed, as if Burr might disappear at any moment.

 “I'm getting nervous,” Burr teased, trying to stem the wild flow of Hamilton's words with a bit of light humor. His attempt at a joke apparently went right over the boy's head, seeing as how his eyes widened, fear of having made a social faux pas evident in his face. Burr was just about to assure him that it was only a joke, but before he could even open his mouth, more words came tumbling out of Hamilton.

 “Sir! I heard your name when I was visiting the College of New Jersey, seeking an accelerated course of study, and well--they refused to grant my request and I may have gotten into an argument with a gentleman who I believe is an acquaintance of yours? I will admit my behavior may not have been the picture of civility, but I certainly did not punch him, despite what the fool told the Headmaster. He handles the financials?”

 Burr was so blown away by the speech he had just been accosted by that he almost didn't realize it had ended with a question.

 “You punched the bursar?” He asked, struggling to maintain the smooth facade that was expected of a gentleman of his class and breeding.

 “Yes!--well no, sir, I did not assault his person in any way, but yes, that was the gentleman that I had a disagreement with. He looked at me like I was stupid--I'm not stupid--So how did you do it? How were you able to graduate so fast?” Hamilton gazed up at him, eyes burning into Burr’s own as if he was prepared to force his way into his mind if Burr refused to provide satisfactory answers. It was at this point that Burr became vastly uncomfortable; he just wanted to return to his brother-in-law’s house and unwind, maybe with a good book or two, not be assaulted by some youth who seemed to believe Burr held the answers to all of life's mysteries in his pocket, and whose energy risked boiling over into impetuousness at every moment.

 “It was my parents' dying wish before they passed.” Burr hoped that this statement would be enough to deter the boy and he attempted to continue on his walk, his pace now distinctly faster.

 “You're an orphan?!” Burr shot the boy a cold look.

 “Of course,” Hamilton said, eyes flicking down sheepishly, giving Burr a momentary reprieve from their intense gaze. He felt like he'd already aged ten years in the past three minutes. Then those eyes were fixed upon him again.

 “I'm an orphan too, sir! Don't you detest how society is so keen to disregard and pity us simply because of circumstances that are completely outside of our control and do nothing to reflect our merit whatsoever? It's why for so long I've wished there was a war, so that those such as ourselves could rise above the meager hand we've been allotted in life and prove that we're worth far more than anyone bargained for!” As tiring as this Hamilton was, Burr had to admit that his drive and fervor were, if presumptuous, also infectious. Before he could continue his torrent of words, Burr took the brief moment in which Hamilton paused to breathe to interrupt.

 “Can I buy you a drink?” He offered. Despite the logical part of his brain that was telling him to make a quick excuse and leave and forget all about this Hamilton and his energetic speech and hands that gesticulated wildly as he spoke, Burr felt himself irrevocably drawn to the boy. All Burr’s life, the weight of his parent’s legacy and the stern words and looks of the various relatives that had raised him in cold and austere mansions had demanded restraint and level-headedness of him. He had not spoken a careless word or taken an unmeasured breath since the day his parents passed away. Until now. In Hamilton, he saw a raging fire that was of the same spark he had buried deep beneath his icy veneer, so deep down that it was nothing but a flickering ember on the verge of being completely extinguished. Now, in the presence of Hamilton, he could feel the spark reigniting and threatening to be fanned into a flame by the words and demeanor of the youth before him.

 “That would be nice,” Hamilton responded with a bright smile after he had paused, blinking for a second, seemingly surprised that he was being received hospitably. Almost as if he usually wasn't. Burr couldn't possibly imagine a reason why that would be true.

 Burr gestured for the boy to fall into step with him as he turned away from the inlet and led Hamilton in the direction of a small and comfortable tavern that he had been a frequent patron of when he was studying at the Elizabethtown Academy.

 “While we are talking, allow me to offer you some free advice,” Burr said, deciding to preemptively cut Hamilton off before he could continue rambling.

 “You'll find that in so-called polite society, among those who pride themselves on their distance from those they deem savages, any misstep, whether in speech or meign, is instantly seized upon and will, at the very least, be mocked and used as a tender piece of gossip in the parlors of all the most respectable families, and at the worst, will be twisted and used by one's enemies to bring about one's ruin. Therefore, in many situations, especially when conversing with company that one is unfamiliar with, it is better to talk less, and to smile more. Better to keep what you are for and what you are against close to your chest where it can not do you any harm,” Burr concluded, wondering if Hamilton's long-windedness had already rubbed off on him.

 “But sir! You cannot be serious!” Hamilton exclaimed, “If we are not to be judged for our opinions and our honest beliefs, than what are we to be judged for? Moreover, if we, as a society, are not to express ourselves honestly, than how are we ever to make ourselves known and truly understand each other? If we never talk about the divisive issues that afflict modern society, then how are we to resolve them?” During his counterargument, Hamilton's eyes sparked and flared with enthusiasm, seemingly not disgruntled at all about coming up against one of a different opinion than himself, but rather immensely pleased. Burr also noticed that his excitement caused the faint accent he had to deepen ever so slightly, as if while Hamilton usually did his best to suppress it, his control weakened when impassioned.

 “You want to get ahead, correct?” Burr asked, putting a hand on Hamilton's shoulder and bringing them both to a stop so Burr could be sure he had the boy's full attention. For whatever reason, and if asked directly about it he would not have been able to give an adequate answer, Burr felt duty bound to protect Hamilton. Whether it was because he already admired him, or because the boy showed so much respect for Burr, or because it had something to do with those intense blue eyes, Burr didn't know. But, regardless of its roots and meanings, it was there.

 “Yes,” Hamilton breathed, the longing and need so desperately evident in his voice and face that Burr almost couldn't bear to look at him.

 “Then heed my warning: Fools who run their mouths oft wind up _dead_.”

 With those words, Burr continued walking, Hamilton taking a second to fall back into step with him. As they neared the tavern, Burr allowed Hamilton to carry the bulk of the conversation-- though allowed was really the wrong word. Burr suspected that Hamilton carried the bulk of every conversation he ever took part in. He inquired as to the boy's purpose in Elizabethtown, learning that he had just enrolled in the Academy and hoped to enroll at a college in less than a year. This prompted a discussion of the various merits of the different colleges the Colonies had to offer.

 Upon reaching the tavern, Burr led Hamilton to a table by a window with a view of the Elizabeth River that he had spent many an evening studying at, and ordered an ale for each of them. Throughout the evening, Hamilton continued to talk, and Burr was amazed at how, despite the immense passion the boy clearly felt (seemingly towards every subject imaginable--Burr imagined Hamilton would even have strong opinions about what the proper number of buttons on a waistcoat was), his sentences and arguments were all perfectly constructed and managed to somehow never go off on a tangent. The words that spilled out of his mouth could have been a premeditated speech. Burr felt himself falling further into Hamilton's gravity.

 “Would you mind me inquiring as to where it is you're from?” Burr asked, taking advantage of a momentary pause in the conversation. Instantly Hamilton's posture changed, becoming rigid when just a moment before he had been full of motion and fluidity. Hamilton carefully set his mug down on the table before pinning Burr to his seat with his eyes, chin thrust up defiantly.

 “I was born on Nevis, in the West Indies. I arrived in Boston Harbor from where I had been living in St. Croix a few months ago.” As he spoke, the faint accent he had become stronger and recognizably West Indian, as if Hamilton were slipping into it on purpose, daring Burr to dismiss him because of his tropical origins. Burr did not blame the boy; he was well aware of the prejudices that many, especially those of his class, had of those who hailed from the Caribbean. And for one of Hamilton's ambitions and temperament, such preconceived ideas of worth must have been both restricting and infuriating.

 “I am not one to disregard or pity someone simply because of circumstances that are outside of their control and do nothing to reflect their merit,” Burr quoted, maintaining eye contact as he took a sip from his own mug. And just like that the storm cleared from Hamilton's face, replaced by a smile that was bright enough to blind and succeeded in stalling Burr’s heart. As Hamilton began talking animatedly again, for the first time Burr found himself unable to follow his words, too preoccupied with wondering just what he had managed to get himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided to continue this! I'm hoping to update once a week, but I can't promise much, especially since I'll be going back to school next week, but I'll do my best!


	3. A Farmer Refuted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander "fight me" Hamilton tries to throw hands, and Burr is "forced" (read: cares more about Hamilton's well-being than he will admit to anyone, including himself) to step in. 
> 
> Sorry this took so long, I kept forgetting to post! I'll do my best to have the next chapter up within a week :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1773, Elizabeth town: A few weeks later

The sun was high in the sky and the town was in the midst of its everyday activity: farmers driving wagons piled high with their crop for the market, lower class women bustling about, buying wares and food for supper, while the upper class women and their husbands made a show of walking slowly, proudly displaying the fact that they had nowhere to be.

Burr was on his way to the library at the Academy, intent on studying from their copy of the fourth volume of William Blackstone’s _Commentaries on the Laws of England_ . He had recently been successful in passing the bar exam and was preparing to begin a clerkship; there was no other option for him but the law. No other way for him to properly shoulder his parent’s legacy but to become a lawyer (to become a _great_ lawyer), and one day enter into politics.

Burr was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice the commotion going on in front of the school. He altered his course slightly, approaching the mass of people, students and townsfolk alike, that were gathered in front of the steps to the school’s main entrance. Burr hovered near the edge of the crowd, shifting forward onto his toes to better see the man that was proclaiming from a pamphlet.

“--in a letter to the farmers, and other inhabitants of North America in general, and to those of the province of New-York in particular. By a farmer; Hear me, for I will speak!” the man cried.

 _Ah_ , _Free Thoughts on the Proceedings of the Continental Congress_. Burr had recently read the pamphlet himself, penned by an A.W. Farmer, though he had heard that the real author was the Bishop Samuel Seabury. Burr would freely admit that the writing was fairly persuasive, though he disagreed with the author’s sentiment.

Just as Burr was about to make his way to one of the side entrances (he really prefered not to get caught up in a crowd of people today), mind half caught up in thoughts about the beautiful editions the school had of _Commentaries_ , a flash of red in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Burr stopped and let out a breath of air between clenched teeth.

_Hamilton. Of course._

Burr moved back towards the mass of people, eyes focused on the wiry frame of Alexander Hamilton who was worming his way through the crowd to the man speaking on the stairs. _One of these days, he’s going to get himself killed_ , Burr thought, trying to squeeze his way past all the bystanders fast enough to catch Hamilton before he reached the steps.

Burr had run into Hamilton a few times since first being stopped on his walk along the river almost a month ago. Two of those meetings were at the Academy’s library, and the other occasion was in the parlor of a mutual acquaintance. Both times Hamilton’s eyes had lit up at the sight of him, pinning Burr to where he stood as Hamilton made his way over to him, a smile on his face and trouble, or at least what _Burr_ considered to be trouble, in his eyes. Both times Hamilton had pulled Burr deep into a conversation, which inevitably became a debate (Even though most of the time their ideas were the same), about the rebellion brewing in the Colonies. Both times Burr was simultaneously frustrated and captivated by Hamilton. Both times Hamilton managed to draw out more opinions from Burr than he normally disclosed in private conversation with his closest friends. And Burr most certainly did  _not_ consider Hamilton a friend. More of an overbearing acquaintance that he put up with. 

Burr reached the front of the crowd just as Hamilton darted up the steps, stopping a couple above where the speaker stood (Burr suspected he did so not only out of a sense of the dramatic, but also so he could be taller than the other man. In many ways, Hamilton reminded Burr of an excitable little dog one of his Aunts had owned. It too seemed to have had a fondness for incessant yapping and standing on various objects in an attempt to be tall).

“This man and the tyrants he supports would have you all unravel at the sounds of screams, but war and revolution are already upon us! Innocent blood has been shed by British hands in Boston! Look around, my fellow citizens! The time has come for decisive action, decisive action in which we sever the chains that have bound us to a corrupt crown for far too long!” Hamilton cried, hands sweeping through the air to punctuate his words.

“Do not let this man and his supposed ‘ _Congress_ ’ lead you astray!” the speaker, who was at least ten years older (as well as a foot taller) than Hamilton, said, stepping in front of him, “Chaos and bloodshed are not a viable solution! These ‘patriots’ are playing a dangerous game. If they have complaints to bring against the king, they should do so in a calm, orderly, and _legal_ manner, a manner that pays respect to their king and is becoming of gentlemen. As for myself, this _boy_ , along with his mockery of a Congress, do not speak for me,” the man concluded, looking smug as many in the audience murmured their agreement and nodded their heads. The speaker clearly thought the argument was done and over with. Burr, on the other hand, knew better. Hamilton just getting started.

“This Congress has more authority over us than King George ever will!” Hamilton retorted, moving up another step and to the side so he was no longer hidden from the crowd. “This Congress you speak of so derisively is made up of _American_ men; men who make their livings on American soil, in American cities. Men who have been democratically chosen by us, the citizens of these Colonies, to represent _our_ interests. Not the interest of some spoiled despotic King of a miniscule island across the Atlantic ocean. What does he know about our needs? What does he know about the struggles and challenges we face everyday, challenges exacerbated by _his_ unjust and oppressive laws and taxes!” Hamilton’s words wove a spell that captured the crowd, drawing more passersby in. Burr himself couldn’t take his eyes off of him. _This is what he was meant to do_ , Burr thought. When Hamilton was speaking like this, he was not a poor boy from the West Indies; he was one of the great orators of Rome. He was a being composed entirely of words and fire.

“Whether or not your accusations are true, the actions taken by those _anarchists_ who call themselves the ‘Sons of Liberty’ are illegal and destructive! How can you support them and claim to speak in the name of liberty?” the speaker argued, moving up a step as his eyes darted between Hamilton and the growing crowd, clearly sensing that he was losing them.

“I can argue for their legality by arguing for the _illegality_ of the supposed laws they are breaking,” Hamilton said, grinning. _Grinning._ _The man was absolutely gleeful._ It was at this moment that Burr dearly hoped he would never go up against Hamilton in court. While he was confident in his own knowledge of the law and his own abilities (or rather what his abilities _would_ be once he had completed his clerkship and properly established himself), Hamilton's charisma and ruthlessness were inimitable. _The sheer passion of the man..._ Burr couldn't look away. Couldn't tell if his heart had ceased beating entirely or if it was beating so fast he could no longer feel it.

“The right of a sovereign to enact laws is a contract with the people. The people give up some of their freedom, in the form of accepting laws that restrict some of their actions, in return for the sovereign’s solemn vow that any and all laws enacted will be for their protection and benefit, and that they will have a say in the procedures. These recent laws benefit none but the British and the King himself, and the American people have no voice in Parliament, and as such, have no other course of action but protest and war. _There is no legal way for us to demand redress_. And now, when the blood of our brothers has already been spilt, when  at every turn the British attempt to subjugate us further, we must act decisively.”

Hamilton, who had been pacing on the steps, now drew himself up to his full (despite what little he had of it) height. He paused, letting the moment grow heavy with anticipation as his eyes slowly moved from person to person in the crowd. They stopped on Burr, and and the world seemed to shift ever so slightly. Burr couldn’t breathe.

“When the political salvation of any community is depending, it is incumbent upon those who are set up as its guardians to embrace such measures as have justice, vigor, and a probability of success to recommend them.” The crowd had swelled and all, whether it was because they were enamored or disgusted, were enraptured by Hamilton.

“Do not listen to this...this...scoundrel!” the older man spat, losing his temper at having been challenged by someone so many years his junior, “His arguments are invalid and so poorly constructed that I won’t even deem to properly refute them!” Burr snorted despite himself; he’d be lying if he said that Hamilton’s actions, while reckless and impetuous, weren’t also amusing.

“Such is my opinion of your abilities as a critic, that I very much prefer your disapprobation to your applause,” Hamilton said, youthful arrogance in every line of his posture as he turned his head away from his opponent and waved a dismissive hand, much to the entertainment of the spectators. The man swore viciously under his breath and by the look he leveled at Hamilton, Burr had a bad feeling that things were about to get _very_ ugly, _very_ quick.

“Why you little _bastard_ \--” and with those words Burr was up the stairs and had both of Hamilton’s arms in a death grip as he steered him away from the man and the crowd that was on the verge of becoming a mob, leading him up the rest of the stairs and towards the Academy doors. Hamilton resisted, doing his best to jerk himself free. Burr knew he had all of three seconds to get Hamilton inside before the deadly quiet that had descended on him broke and the rage that was always tightly balled up just beneath the surface ripped its way out of him. Burr gritted his teeth and gather all of his strength before shoving Hamilton the remaining distance and into the safety of the school. It was then that Hamilton broke his silence.

“Let go of me! Get your hands off of me, Burr!” Hamilton attempted to turn around and head back out the doors. Either to insult or punch the other man, Burr didn’t know. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Hamilton had a duel on his mind.

“Hamilton--Stop it! Get a hold of yourself, man!” he growled as Hamilton managed to get an arm free and twist around. Burr swore as Hamilton kicked him in the shin in his struggle, and decided he had had enough. He grabbed Hamilton’s other arm again and shoved him back into the wall across from the door, keeping one hand gripped tightly around his bicep, and bracing the other arm across his chest.

“Listen to me Hamilton!” Burr snarled, getting directly in the other man’s face, “You have nothing to prove to that man. You won the debate. He resorted to calling you a bastard because he knew he had no chance of defeating you with facts or arguments.”

Hamilton was still breathing heavily, eyes focused over Burr’s shoulder at the door that stood between him and the moron he had been debating. His entire body was tensed, ready to break free as soon as Burr showed any sign of loosening his grip.

“Look at me, Hamilton. _Alexander_ ,” finally Hamilton met Burr’s eyes and Burr felt his mouth go dry and all rational thought leave his head as he saw the fury and pain in Alexander's eyes.

“ _You do not have anything to prove to him_ ,” Burr said after a pause (too long of a pause), “You’re worth is not determined by what assholes like that man say about you. Let go of it.”

Hamilton held Burr’s gaze a moment longer and then Burr saw and felt all of the fight go out of him. Hamilton slumped in his arms, head leaning forward to rest on his chest, just beneath his chin. Burr couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know how to breathe. He didn’t know what breathing was. Suddenly all he knew was how small and warm Hamilton felt pressed against his chest like this. He couldn’t think of anything except for the way his hair smelled and the fact the he was prettier than any man had a right to be.

“I hate him. I hate him and every man like him,” Hamilton mumbled against his chest. Burr could barely hear him over the beating of his own heart. He prayed Hamilton wouldn’t be able to hear the wild pounding threatening to break his ribcage.

“Well you defeated him pretty soundly out there. Absolutely decimated him,” Burr said, regretting giving Hamilton a compliment instantly. Hamilton looked up, a crooked grin on his face and a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“Was that a compliment from the great and esteemed Aaron Burr, the pride and prodigy of the College of New Jersey?” Hamilton asked, arching a brow. Burr was painfully aware of just how close they still were, nearly nose to nose. He opened his mouth for a retort but came up with nothing, his throat too dry and too tightly clenched to let any sound out. Hamilton’s grin widened, becoming more boyish and crooked as he leaned in another inch and for a second, everything faded away except for those blue eye staring into his. Those eyes were all that had ever existed and would ever exist. Burr would die looking into those eyes.

And then Hamilton was slipping out of his slackened grip, leaving Burr leaning against the wall as he faced him, walking backwards down the hall towards the students’ dormitories.

“Farewell, Aaron Burr, sir,” Hamilton said with a mock bow and another feline-like grin. Burr just nodded dumbly as Hamilton turned and strode down the hall, away from Burr as if nothing had happened. Burr faced the wall and let his head fall against it with a thud as he closed his eyes and let a long stream of air out of his lungs. Alexander Hamilton was going to be the death of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Underlined parts are actual quotes from Hamilton in one of his Farmer Refuted pamphlets. All the rest of his speech is made up by me, though I did my best to make it reflect ideals he and the other founders had at the time. 
> 
> Timeline is a bit messed up in this one; The Free Thoughts pamphlet wasn't written until 1774, so any reaction Hamilton had couldn't be until after that, but Hamilton was in New York then (and Burr wasn't) and I wanted to keep/expand the interaction they have in Farmer Refuted in the musical.
> 
> Burr was passed around to various relatives growing up, although I have no idea if any aunt of his ever had a little dog. The comparison is still accurate. 
> 
> It is my goal to make as many short jokes as possible in the writing of this. Sorry Hamilton. 
> 
> Burr is just an adorable lovesick teenager with a crush. At this point, he's not even really trying to deny it. 
> 
> Also I have a blog on tumblr @ushistorytrash. Feel free to hit me up :)


	4. the Fire pent up in their own Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we get a closer analysis into Burr's character and past, which brings up a lot of angst, some religious themes, and some border-line child abuse (nothing graphic or violent, but it is some really shitty parenting). And, two dorks in love get an idea of how much they mean to each other
> 
> Update: I definitely did not proofread this enough because holy shit my dudes... I've corrected some grammar and smoothed out a few rough parts. All the events are the same, and none of the language is dramatically different, but it should be a bit of a better read now!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1774, New York City  
> (Burr is 18, Hamilton is 19 pretending to be 17)

Burr’s hands were shoved deep in his pockets as he walked as quickly as he could along the New York waterfront. He didn't know where he was going. All he knew was that if he had stayed at his cousin’s for one more second, he would have done something very, very stupid. Something even stupider than acting like a child and storming out of the house and into the dark and freezing air of an unfamiliar city. 

It hadn't been anything Burr hadn't heard a hundred times before since he had made his decision to give up studying theology: _Why on earth would you choose to study the law as opposed to going into the ministry? Are you so completely unconscious of the legacy you bear? Have you forgotten your father and grandfather completely? They would be disgusted by you for turning your back on God in such a manner._

Burr gritted his teeth and walked faster, feeling a violent pounding in his head as the words his cousin had scolded him with echoed in his ears. Scolded him! As if he were a spoiled and ungrateful child! Did they not understand that every _god-damned_ thing Burr did was for his parents legacy? And then the words that had made him walk out, the ones that he had been trying so hard to get away from, his grandfather's own words thrown back in his face, played through his mind:

 _Were it not that so is the sovereign Pleasure of God, the Earth would not bear you one Moment;_ **_for you are a Burden to it._ **

Burr snapped. The cool calm he had spent his life cultivating as an armor cracked and he could see nothing but red as he let out a scream of frustration and slammed his fist into the brick wall of the warehouse to his left.

He then proceeded to swear viciously and cradle his hand to his chest, praying he hadn't broken it in a moment of rashness.

“Next time you wish to take your anger out in such a manner, I would recommend something softer, such as a pillow or perhaps a sack of flour” a lilting voice suggested from behind Burr. He quickly spun around, squinting into the dark, trying to make out the features of the figure leaning casually against the same wall Burr had just assaulted. The figure straightened and took a step towards Burr and the faint moonlight spilled across his face revealing laughing eyes, a crooked nose, and a sly grin.

“Hamilton,” Burr breathed, eyes wide as he took in the man standing across from him. He was perhaps an inch taller than he had been before, but just as slender, and he still stood with his feet braced and his shoulders back, as if he was waiting for a fight. (Or perhaps posing for a portrait.)

“What a pleasant surprise meeting you here, Mr. Burr, sir. How is your hand faring after your fight with the wall?” Hamilton teased, taking another step forward. Burr’s heart was pounding in his chest even though they were still separated by at least five feet. He hadn't seen Hamilton since that day in Elizabethtown when he had saved him from getting into a fistfight on the steps of the Academy. That day when he had stood so close to Hamilton that he could’ve counted the faint freckles cast across his nose and cheeks. Hamilton had left to attend King's College without so much as a farewell. Not that Burr cared. Because he didn't. (He did.)

_(Haste and escape for your Lives, look not behind you, escape to the Mountain, least you be consumed.)_

His grandfather's words, as quoted from the Bible in his most famous sermon, rose unbidden in his mind, taking on an entirely different meaning than any that had ever been intended.

“I-it’s fine,” Burr stuttered, finally pulling his eyes away from Hamilton to look at his hand. He attempted to uncurl his clenched fist, hissing as pain shot through his index and middle fingers.

“Here, you fool, let me see it,” Hamilton said impatiently as he closed the distance between them and took Burr’s hand in his own with a surprisingly gentle touch. Burr found himself dumbly staring at him again as Hamilton bent over his hand and examined it with a critical eye.  

“Can you straighten your fingers?”

Burr tried, swearing softly at the pain, though he was able to do so in the end.

“Good,” Hamilton murmured as he continued to examine Burr’s hand, softly poking and prodding at his fingers and knuckles, examining the abrasions. Suddenly the night felt twenty degrees warmer and Burr thought that his blood must literally be boiling in his veins.

( _You hang by a slender Thread, with the Flames of divine Wrath flashing about it, and ready every Moment to singe it, and burn it asunder_.)

Hamilton took a handkerchief out from his pocket and tied it carefully but firmly around Burr’s knuckles.

“There. I don't believe anything is broken, though I'm no doctor, so I would suggest being careful with it; try to avoid writing for a few days or perhaps just don't punch another wall anytime soon,” Hamilton instructed, straightening up from where he had been bent over Burr’s injured hand.

“Thank you,” Burr said, quietly. He could hear the lapping of the water against the docks, the mumble of distant voices, and the faint sound of carriage wheels turning somewhere far, far away.

Hamilton was still holding his hand.

_Hamilton was still holding his hand._

Hamilton glanced down at their joined hands, gazing at them intently as if trying to solve some sort of puzzle. Then he gently rubbed his thumb over the back of Burr’s hand, just once.

( _the Flames gather and flash about them… the Fire pent up in their own Hearts is struggling to break out--_ )

And then Hamilton dropped his hand and took a step back. Burr blinked. Hamilton studied him, indecision warring on his face.

“Come,” he said, one hand on Burr’s shoulder, leading him to the edge of the wharf where Hamilton sat down with his legs dangling over the water. Burr sat beside him, conscious of every inch between them. _Painfully_ conscious of how the moonlight made Hamilton’s skin glow and his eyes seem dark and bottomless, like Burr could drown in them. Burr considered throwing himself into the sea and actually drowning to avoid doing something stupid. His emotions were stretched taut from his confrontation with his cousin, and he wasn't sure how well he would be able to control what he said or did. It was quiet for a minute as Hamilton stared at the reflection of the moon on the water and Burr forced his lungs to breath in a regular and sane manner.

“So what did the wall do to anger you so,” Hamilton finally asked, snapping out of his reverie. And with those words and that sly grin, Burr was able to focus on his annoyance with Hamilton and summon up enough indigence to reply,

“I don't see how that's any of your business,” while looking properly displeased with Hamilton's company. Hamilton sighed before turning to face Burr.

“Look, Burr... I'm sorry for teasing you. Please believe me, when I say that I ask this in earnest: What happened?” Burr looked at Hamilton out of the corner of his eye, surprised at the apology, but even more surprised at the worry in Hamilton's face. It made his stomach flutter in an entirely discomforting way. He looked straight forward again.

“I appreciate your help,” Burr said, gesturing to the makeshift bandage on his hand, “But you needn't feel obligated, Hamilton--”

“Alexander.”

“What?” Burr asked, turning to Hamilton who, oddly enough, looked almost... nervous. His eyes darted from Burr’s face to the handkerchief wrapped around his knuckles to the ships floating on the waves.

“Call me Alexander. I consider you a friend and it would please me greatly if you would do me the honor of addressing me by my Christian name,” Hamilton asked, posture rigid and language oddly formal for a request of informality.

“I had not realized you considered us to be friends,” Burr started and, upon seeing the disappointment flit across Hamilton's face, he quickly added, “But I am honored that you do, Alexander, and would be equally pleased if you'd address me as Aaron.” Hamilton's entire face lit up and his posture loosened as he gave Burr a wide, lopsided grin.

“Thank you Aaron,” Alexander said softly. Burr’s stomach gave another wild flip and for a second he grinned back at Hamilton, _Alexander_ , giddy with something he couldn't name.

( _their joy, even when it is unspeakable and full of glory, is a humble broken-hearted joy)_

Burr swallowed down the feeling rising in his throat and set his gaze on the water. This was Hamilton he was talking with in the silver-lined darkness, not a pretty girl he wished to court. What he felt, what he hoped Hamilton felt for him, didn’t matter; there was no future here. It was quiet again for a moment before Burr broke the silence.

“My father was a Presbyterian minister and my maternal grandfather was the famous new-light preacher Jonathan Edwards. Even since I was born, it was assumed that I would follow in their footsteps, and when my parents died--” Burr paused to take a deep breath and subdue his rising emotions, “When my parents died, it became all-important that I continued their legacy. I studied theology and nearly obtained my degree, but… It wasn't what I wanted. So I switched to law. And ever since then, many of my relatives and my parent's old friends have been… Less than pleased with my decision to do so,” Burr ended with a forced grin that probably looked more like a grimace.

“I take it you're staying with some of these people in the city at the moment?” Alexander asked. Burr laughed harshly.

“The worst of them. He's a cousin of mine, on my mother's side and therefore also a descendant of the great Jonathan Edwards. Though _he_ is doing his holy duty and serves God as a minister, unlike the family shame you see sitting here with you.”

“Don't you dare talk like that! Anyone who's stupid enough to believe that you've somehow brought shame to your parents and their legacy by graduating from the College of New Jersey in _two years_ and at the age of sixteen, _and_ being well on your way to establishing what I am positive will be an extremely successful and lucrative law practice, is not worth your time!” Alexander spoke earnestly, eyes flashing in the dark as his hands waved around wildly, “I am convinced that anyone of that opinion cannot be but a minority and I will be more than happy to fight every single one of them personally.”

“I appreciate your support and enthusiasm, Alexander, but who’s to say they're not right? I can't know what my parents would have wanted for me, I can't even recall the sound of their voices. And while he's definitely the more outspoken of my relatives, I know he's not the only one who’s, at the very least, confused by my choices,” Burr finished, trying to smile and act as if it didn't bother him that much, that most of his family at the very least thought he was making a mistake, and some thought he was purposefully scorning the parents who had loved him and turning his back on God. He didn't think he was very successful though, because his throat felt unusually tight and his voice had wavered on the last words. He felt a hand lightly touch his shoulder, and maybe it was because he was tired or maybe it was because he was upset, but Burr leaned into the touch and soon Hamilton had his whole arm wrapped around him and Burr had leaned his head on his shoulder.

“What did he say to you? What was it that made you walk out?” Hamilton asked quietly.

“He quoted my grandfather at me. He said,” Burr straightened and adopted the cold and haughty demeanor of his older cousin, “Were it not that so is the sovereign Pleasure of God, the Earth would not bear you one Moment; for you are a Burden--” Burr couldn't suppress the sob that overtook his voice, and he buried his face in Hamilton's shoulder, his body shaking with the effort to keep himself under control. Hamilton wrapped both his arms around him, speaking soothing words into his ear. They sat like that, for Burr didn't know how long, but eventually his breathing calmed down  and he became aware of the way Hamilton was softly rubbing his back and rocking him ever so slightly. It was with this realization that Burr wanted to jump up and run away, but also lean further into Hamilton's embrace and never leave. And because that was the way the night was going, he gripped the front of Hamilton's coat with one hand and adjusted how his head laid on Alexander’s shoulder.

“Has anyone ever commented on your remarkable maternal instincts?” Burr asked, glancing up at Hamilton with a bit of a smirk.

“Quiet, or I'll push you into the harbor,”  Hamilton nudged Burr with his side. Burr just gave a tearful laugh. They were quiet for another minute or two, both content to sit and listen to rush of the tide coming in.

“I spent most of my childhood in the care of my maternal uncle. The environment of that house… I don't mean to sound ungrateful, I had a roof over my head and was afforded every opportunity, and my aunt and uncle had three sons who I got along with quite well, but… He was another descendant of Jonathan Edwards. All of us boys were expected to go into the ministry, and we were never allowed to just be boys. I remember one summer day being forced to sit for hours in the stifling heat of my Uncle’s library. I wasn't allowed to get up or unbend my head until I had memorized three of my Grandfather’s sermons, not even for water. I was ten years old. It was so hot, I remember sweat running into my eyes so they stung and filled with tears until I couldn't see the text before me. And after awhile, I stopped even being able to sweat. It wasn't until I passed out and fell out of my chair that I was allowed to stop,” Burr felt Hamilton's hand squeeze his shoulder at these words in silent sympathy. For all the times Hamilton couldn't shut up, he was a surprisingly good listener when he needed to be. Burr fixed his gaze on the ship docked closest to them.

“I tried to run away three times. I had it in my head that I would join up on a ship, sail the high seas, see the world, and one day become a captain of my own ship. The first time I tried to leave, I was brought back by our groomsman, having made less than two miles. But the other two times-- I made it to the harbor, and I was so close to joining the crew of a ship and never looking back.”

“What kept you from doing so?” Hamilton asked.

“My older sister, Sally. I couldn't leave her behind. We were all either of us truly had in this world. I stayed for her,” Burr answered, releasing his hold on Hamilton's coat and lifting his head off his shoulder, worrying that he had allowed himself to stay in such an intimate position for too long. Worrying what Hamilton might be thinking of him. Though evidently not enough to make him widen the distance between them; Hamilton's arm stayed wrapped around him and they were pressed together from knee to hip to shoulder.

“I have a younger brother, James,” Hamilton said as he played with a loose thread on his breeches, “I didn't stay for him.”

“He's still on St. Croix?” Burr asked, surprising himself, and Hamilton judging by the look he shot him, that he remembered the name of the island he'd come from. Hamilton shrugged.

“I haven't received a letter from him in months. Last I heard of him, he had nearly completed his apprenticeship with a carpenter, though it's common for people to move around from island to island, so who knows where he is. I might never see him again,” Hamilton finished quietly.

“Do you miss him?” Burr asked. Hamilton shrugged again.

“We were never that close. I mean--I loved him. We were brothers. When it was just us and our mother, I watched out for him, took beatings from the older children in his place, always made sure he had food before I let myself eat, but… We were always so different. I constantly read and asked questions about everything, but James had no mind for reading and was content with not knowing what the world outside of the islands was like. I wanted nothing more than to leave whereas James saw the islands as home. And when our mother died, we were split up. So really, leaving the islands and him for good was easy. I had slowly been doing it for years. In my mind I was already gone. And I don't like thinking about how easy it was for me to leave. I'm not sure I like what that says about me,” Hamilton concluded.

“Those islands were hell. I've heard accounts of what conditions are like there, of the disease and violence that make up everyday life. I stayed where I was and had the privilege of growing up in a wealthy home, with my future assured and taken care of by others. If you had stayed, you would have died on those islands without ever having made your mark on the world, Alexander. Your mind and ambitions are too great to have been squandered away in such a manner,” Burr said. As he spoke, he turned to face Alexander and gripped his shoulder in one hand, causing Hamilton’s arm to slip from its place around Burr’s shoulders and settle around his waist.  

“You really think I'll be a great man?” Alexander asked, meeting Burr’s eyes with his crooked grin back in place.

“Once you master the art of being humble, yes,” Burr chided.

“Thank you,” Hamilton murmured, his eyes and mouth softening, becoming so soft that Burr couldn't keep his eyes from flicking down to take in the curves of his lips.

“Now is when you say you think I’ll become a great man too,” Burr breathed, trying to summon up his usual cool-headedness and and ignore the way Hamilton's eyes, the darkest violet in the faint light, were staring into his own from inches away.

( _...if it were let loose, it would set fire on the course of nature…)_

“You will become a great man, Aaron,” Hamilton whispered, leaning in closer to Burr. Burr could count each of his eyelashes, see each freckle on his face, feel his hot breath on his lips. And then Alexander's lips were on his.

Their touch was light and soft and it turned all the air in Burr’s lungs to flame and he couldn't breath, the only way to breath was to keep kissing Alexander, to never stop kissing Alexander. His hands slipped into Hamilton's hair as Alex tightened his grip on Burr’s waist, pulling him even closer. Then Hamilton bit his lip and ran his tongue along the seam of their joined mouths and Burr gasped and could no longer feel any part of his body that wasn’t touching the other man.

( _...raised from being dead in sin, to a state of new, and before altogether unexperienced light and life…)_

Time had ceased to exist, and all thoughts were as distant as the moon and the stars above them. Finally, they pulled away from each other to breathe, foreheads pressed together. Burr’s hands moved to grip the front of Hamilton's coat and he closed his eyes and listened to the sound of their harsh breathing. He had never been this happy and content before. Had never felt this safe.

Burr felt a hand softly graze his face and he tilted his head to rest his cheek in Alexander’s hand.

“I don't suppose you can stay here much longer before your Uncle gets too worried?” Hamilton asked, a smile evident in his voice.

“Perhaps just a bit longer,” Burr answered, and then they were kissing again, slowly, smiling into it as if they had all the time in the world, as if they had the possibility of a future, as if they lived in a world that could recognized the beauty in their embrace; Burr had spent his life on his knees in churches, but he had never felt closer to God than here in Alexander’s arms.

Eventually Burr had to pull away. He could've kissed Alexander ( _he had **kissed** Alexander Hamilton)_ all night long, but he worried that, despite his coldness and evident dislike of Burr, his cousin would eventually send someone looking for him. When Burr told Hamilton that he was leaving New York in two days, and he didn't know when he'd be back, Alexander just smiled and told him that they'd see each other again.

Later that night, after he had returned to his Cousin’s house and crept into the room he was staying in, Burr laid awake in the dark, replaying the kisses he and Alexander had shared over and over in his mind as he rubbed the handkerchief wrapped around his knuckles. The blood in his veins burned and felt like it had become ichor, the golden blood of the gods. And as his eyes finally slipped closed, his grandfather's words whispered through his mind one last time:

 

_They are as great heaps of light chaff before the whirlwind; or large quantities of dry stubble before devouring flames._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo....that definitely took me more than a week to post. I feel really bad about that, but i had absolutely no inspiration. The plan was to write about them meeting up again during the war, but I was trying to figure out when exactly they first came into contact with each other during the war and couldn't get anything concrete and I didn't know how I wanted them to meet. But then I came up with this idea (which totally never happened, but is sort of possible, I guess??). Unfortunately that means that the next chapter will take place during the war, so I'll have to figure out what the hell I'm going to do for that.
> 
> -I have no idea if Burr had any family in New York City, let alone a maternal cousin  
> -Burr did really switch from theology to the law (he either had already obtained his degree, or was very close to when he made the switch). I don't know if any family members were disapproving or not  
> -Aaron Burr Sr. was a Presbyterian minister and his maternal grandfather was Jonathan Edwards, literally the most important New Light preacher during the Great Awakening (Besides George Whitefield, maybe)  
> -All italicized quotes are actual quotes from Edwards, all but one from his famous sermon "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God)  
> -Oddly enough, Hamilton actually was known as the Mom (TM) friend. Many of his friends commented on his "maternal" instincts in regards to them and his children. One friend wrote about how while staying with the Hamiltons, he became sick and went to bed early. Later that night, Hamilton crept into his room and laid another blanket on him, and said something to the effect of "We couldn't stand to lose you"  
> -I did not make up James or Sally (Sarah)  
> -One source I came across talked about how the uncle Burr and Sally spent most of their childhood with was very religious and strict and that Burr tried to runaway to the sea a couple times, but I couldn't find another source to confirm so I don't know about this??  
> -The Caribbean Islands were horribly violent places at the time, especially if you were a slave; it was brutal. To get a real idea of slavery throughout the 1600s and 1700s, I recommend reading up on them  
> -Hamilton never saw his brother again after he left St. Croix


	5. be gone and live, or stay and die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter what happens, Hamilton always seems to be right; they do see each other again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manhattan; September 15, 1776
> 
> Burr is 20, Hamilton is 21, pretending to be 19

Everything had turned to shit.

What began as a battle for Manhattan had turned into the Patriot forces trying to retreat without being completely slaughtered. At the moment, Burr and his men were removed from the action with the main body of troops as they moved south, but cannons from the British ships blockading New York harbor could be heard booming in the distance, as well as the distant thunder of artillery. Burr was saddle-weary, sweaty, and, despite the unflinching face he presented to his men, sick to his stomach; if they did not get off this damn island, if they suffered too many casualties, the war would be over, and they would all most assuredly be thrown in prison, if not hung.

“Major Burr!”

He shook himself out of his reverie, turning his focus to the private pulling his horse to an abrupt stop in front of him. The lad saluted Burr and he returned the address.

“Yes, Private?”

“Orders from General Washington, Sir. A company of New York artillery is being cut-off by the British at Fort Bunker Hill and badly needs reinforcements to aid in their retreat. His Excellency has ordered your company to be these reinforcements, Sir,” the man said, all in one breath.

“Thank you, assure General Washington that my men and I will not fail to execute his orders,” Burr responded, forcing himself to fall back into the necessary mindset for battle.

“Yes, Sir!” With those words, the private saluted and rode off towards the head of the army where Washington and his aides and advisers were no doubt struggling to hold the army together. Burr turned to his men and ordered them to fall into rank and relayed the Commander’s orders to them. They detached from the main body of the army and rode towards the sound of cannons, artillery, and muskets. As they got closer, the cacophony grew deafening and Burr could smell the gunpowder that hung in the air, and hear the screams and moans of dying men. He patted the breast pocket of his coat that contained a white handkerchief spotted with blood.

Burr and his men veered south, so that instead of approaching the American lines from directly behind and getting flanked by the British as well, they’d come at an angle from behind the British lines, crushing the lobsterbacks between the two forces. Or well, rather surprising them and causing enough confusion and damage that both of the Patriot forces would be able to slip away. Burr didn’t have enough men to stand a chance of forcing the British to retreat. All any of them could do at this point was pinch the arteries and hope they didn’t bleed out before the war had even truly begun.

They reached the fort, a bulwark barely holding back a crushing sea of red; the only reason it hadn’t been completely overrun already was that the Americans had the high ground, and from what Burr could see through the smoke, the artillery had been strategically placed to provide the best cover possible with the limited supplies available. Despite that, if they didn’t act quickly, all would be lost.

“Alright, men, we are not heading into a full engagement, we don’t have the numbers for that. Rather we’ll hit them from the rear hard and fast, drawing their attention away just long enough for the artillery company to fall back and regroup into a position that will allow them to retreat. Maintain as much distance as you can. We cannot stand to be drawn into their forces and trapped as well. After the first volley, Sergeant Ainsworth’s squad will follow me to join with the the New York Company to give them orders to retreat and aid in their removal. Keep the enemy’s attention and force them to stretch their lines. Captain Hayes, when Ainsworth and I are able to begin the artillery company’s retreat, you will lead this company's retreat and rejoin under my command.”

After a collective cry of ‘Yes, Sir!”, Burr wheeled his horse around and plunged into the chaos. Luckily the British battalion was caught by surprise and seemed to be under the command of an inexperienced Lieutenant Colonel who was unable to keep his men from panicking. Half of the troops continued to attack the Patriots entrenched at the top of the hill, while the other half spun around and fired wildly at Burr’s men.

Burr broke off with Sergeant Ainsworth and his squad and rode back the way they’d come, rounding the bulk of the British and heading up the embankment to the American forces who were fighting with renewed vigor upon seeing that reinforcements had arrived. Burr rode with his sword unsheathed, and when the stray soldier got in their way, he acted quickly and without thinking. He would think later when he was scrubbing the blood from his face and hands and praying for all of their souls.

They rode into the hastily constructed fort, past rows of the dead and dying.

“You there! Where is your commanding officer?” Burr shouted to a passing soldier as he pulled his horse to a stop. Ainsworth and his men quickly joined the line of riflemen attempting to hold of the swell of British soldiers.

“That would be me, Major Burr, sir,” Burr heard from behind him and his heart stuttered in his chest. He turned his horse around and saw Alexander Hamilton, standing there in the green short coat of his company, the smoke swirling in the air making him look like something from a dream. He met Burr’s eyes, steely gaze boring into him, and the chaos of the battle ground to a halt for one eternal second.

“ _Alexander_ …”

After that night on the harbor, when Alexander had bandaged his wounds and kissed him under the stars, Burr hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. The next night he had been shaken out of the book he was reading by the sound of pebbles hitting his window. Upon opening the window and leaning out, he saw Alexander step out of the shadows of the alley. He grinned up at Burr as he began to melodramatically recite Shakespeare. In that moment, Burr felt his heart swell and he couldn't contain his laughter as he snuck out of his room and all but ran down the stairs, out the door, and into the alley. Burr had drawn up short, suddenly unsure and terrified that Alexander hadn’t meant everything that happened the night before, that it had all just been a joke.

“How did you know which window was mine?”He had asked, holding his hands behind his back to hide their fidgeting. Alexander pushed off from the wall he’d been leaning on, cocky grin fixed on his face.

“I didn’t. That was the third window I tried.” Burr suddenly had the horrifying image of Hamilton waking up his cousin and his wife. His terror must have shown on his face because Hamilton laughed and held out his hands in a placating gesture.

“Don’t worry. I made sure I was hidden in the shadows until I saw who came to the window, and the second one I tried seemed to have been to an empty room.”

“And the first?”

“A rather unpleasant looking man I assumed was your cousin opened the window and peered down. I believe he assumed it had been the work of some street ruffians, as he muttered some about ‘those damn rascals’. Quite inappropriate language for a preacher, don’t you think?” Alexander’s smirk was still in place, but Burr could see the hesitancy behind it as he took a step closer.

“Why are you here?” Burr asked cautiously. The smirk slipped off Hamilton’s face completely as his posture turned rigid and his eyes fixed on a point over Burr’s shoulder.

“I wanted to see you. Before you left the city. After last night-- My apologies if I’ve disturbed you or overstepped any boundaries--”

“You didn’t. I’m glad you’re here,” Burr cut him off, stepping close enough to take one of his hands in his own, “Alexander.”

At the sound of his Christian name, a smile sprang back onto Hamilton’s face and he took Aaron’s other hand, softly rubbing his thumb over the handkerchief still wrapped around it. Burr felt himself blush and he couldn’t stop grinning as Hamilton gently walked him backwards until his back was pressed against the alley wall, their eyes never leaving each other’s.

Alexander leaned in until his nose brushed Burr’s and he could feel his warm breath on his lips. Burr’s eyes fluttered shut as one of Hamilton’s hands left his and gently cupped his face, bringing their lips together in the sweetest, gentlest kiss Burr had ever experienced, somehow even better than any of the kisses they had shared the night before.

The world around them turned soft and melted, time sliding free until they were in an elastic moment that existed outside of the bounds of society and reality. Burr’s senses consisted of Alex’s lips soft and sharp against his, his smooth hair under Aaron’s fingers, and the feeling of Hamilton’s hands clinging to the front of his shirt.

After a minute and forever, they broke apart, panting and grinning into each other’s mouths; Burr laughed and connected their lips again and again before moving on to kiss Alexander’s nose, eyes, forehead, chin, every spot on his face he could reach as Hamilton closed his eyes and smiled.

Then they walked hand in hand through the dark and sleeping city, the only kind they would ever be able to do such through; Burr took such melancholy thoughts and shoved them to the back of his mind, ignoring how his heartbeat seemed to be marking the few and finite seconds they had. Tonight, Burr would forget about the future and all his carefully laid plans.

They walked for hours, sometimes silent, sometimes talking about the revolutionary fervor that was thick in the air, or about all they would see and do one day when they were both great men who shaped their’s and other’s fortunes with broad strokes of their hands.

When the air lightened from black to gray, they returned to the alley besides Burr’s cousin’s and held hands as they stood with their foreheads resting on each other. Burr could feel salt stinging the back of his throat, and the ache that he had been holding back all night erupted in his chest and threatened to tear him apart. He swallowed and forced himself to open his eyes.

“I have to go, my cousin will be up before too long,” he said, starting to pull away.

“Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear _,_ ” Alexander murmured in Burr’s ear with a rueful grin. Aaron couldn’t help but chuckle at Hamilton’s dramatics, though in the moment the levity seemed forced and the words more true than anytime Burr had heard them performed.

“Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale,” Alex continued as he kissed behind Burr’s ear and made his knees weak. _Romeo and Juliet_ was never his favorite of Shakespeare’s works, and through the haze in his mind he could only remember a fragment of Romeo’s lines.

“I must be gone and live, or stay and die,” he breathed, tilting his head to the side so Alexander could more easily continue his ministrations. As Hamilton’s teeth grazed his skin, Burr thought wildly that perhaps it would be worth it to stay here and die.

“Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I. It is some meteor that the sun exhales to be to thee this night a torchbearer, and light thee on thy way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet. Thou need’st not to be gone,” Alexander whispered as he nosed along the edge of Burr’s caveat, pushing it lower to expose more skin with which he could torture him and make Aaron lose his mind. Burr forced himself to straighten and gently push Hamilton away, smiling and running a thumb along Alex’s lip when he pouted.

“If anyone could will the sun not to rise and for the night to last forever, it would be you, Alexander,” he said fondly. Hamilton sighed and turned his face to rest in Burr’s hand for a second before he kissed his palm and stepped back. Suddenly the distance between them was insurmountable and Burr didn’t have any words strong enough to make it across the gap. Again, a deep and sick ache pulsed through his heart. They stared into each other’s eyes as Burr took a step back.

“I’ll write to you,” he blurted.

“We’ll see each other again,” Hamilton said.

The sun rose just a little bit more; apparently even Alexander’s will was not strong enough to halt it’s progress.

Burr held Alex’s eyes for a moment longer before he turned and walked quickly into the house and up to his room where he collapsed on his bed. He didn’t sleep for the last few hours of night, and when his cousin’s wife remarked upon how tired he seemed at breakfast, Burr murmured something half-heartedly about having been unable to sleep as he downed his coffee and promised himself that when he stopped at an inn on his journey home that day, he’d drink himself into oblivion.

 

Burr stood on the battlefield, recalling all of this in just a few seconds as he stared at Alexander. Burr had tried to write Hamilton but every time he sat down and put quill  to paper, his mind had come up blank. For all the kisses and grand plans they shared in the two days they’d had, not a single word about what it had all meant and what they were to each other had passed between the two. And when Hamilton hadn’t written either, Burr had taken the silver memories of those two nights and tucked them away and done his best not to think of them.

And now here he stood, proud in his military uniform, violet eyes that could have been elated or hostile cutting into him.

Burr quickly recovered. He sternly told himself he could worry about his personal life once they had evacuated and were all safely back with the main body of the army.

“You finally got that war you wanted, Captain Hamilton,” he said.

“I suppose I did,” Hamilton replied, face still revealing nothing.

“Now let’s get the hell out of here so we can fight another day,” Burr said, Hamilton’s expression flickering as he caught the double meaning to Burr’s words.

“Yes, sir."

Hamilton then turned and yelled orders at his men to gather the wounded and secure the artillery for transport. Burr rode up to Ainsworth and the two directed their men in aiding the artillery company. The entire time though, even as bullets whizzed past and death hovered over them all, Aaron couldn’t help but think of Alexander and wonder if what had been between them was completely lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses... I've decided that I'm going to stop promising when I update because fuck if I know when that'll be. Thanks for hanging on if you're still reading this fever dream of mine.
> 
> -Burr did really help evacuate Hamilton's artillery unit from Fort Bunker Hill (which I think was actually on Bayard's Hill??) on this day. How exactly this went down, I have absolutely no idea--military history isn't my thing so I just made all the details up.  
> -Sargent Ainsworth and Captain Hayes aren't real people (as far as I know) I just made them up for my convenience  
> -I really wanted for Ham and Burr to have at least written a few letters to each other, because Hammie was known for his writing and I really wanted to try writing a love letter through his voice, but as far as I can tell, they never engaged in any correspondence except for the letters sent leading up to the duel, and I'm trying to maintain some semblance of historical accuracy (lol I'll probably break and include something in the next chapter or two).


	6. Jamais Vous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While trying to lead a retreat, deal with a stubborn colonel, and simply make it another day, there isn't time for Burr to ask Hamilton what he most wants to know.
> 
> (Does he regret what happened between the two of them?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later the Same Day as previous Chapter  
> September 15, 1776  
> Burr is 20, Hamilton is 21 pretending to be 19

Burr did not think. He issued orders. He led his men in their retreat. He killed British soldiers without blinking. He shoved every last bit of him that could feel remorse or mercy or longing for Hamilton deep down and locked it away. He froze his heart and mind and just reacted to the blood, bullets, and bayonets.

 It was a couple hours before his company and Alexan--The New York Company neared the rear of the main patriot force as they fled to Harlem. Burr’s heart revolted against the retreat, but logic reminded him that it is not cowardly but necessary. The extraction of the New York Company was as successful as it could have been; while much of the weaponry had been lost, they managed to take many of the guns and two of the cannons. Burr sent a private off to inform the General of their success and allowed himself to breath a sigh of relief. He was alive. All of his men were alive. They were going to make it another day.

 And it was with the strain of battle lifting from his mind that Burr’s thoughts finally gave into the gravity of the object they had been circling.

  _Alexander_.

 Burr held himself rigidly, resisting the urge to turn turn around and look for a flash of red hair. The quickening rhythm of his heart though, as always, remained outside of his control and he thanked God he was the only one who could hear it. He tightened his grip on the reins, every muscle and nerve in his hands tingling with the memory of winding their way into the other man’s hair, gripping the front of his jacket, tracing the shape of his jaw, his neck--

  _Alexander_.

 Aaron’s heart filled with light and soared as the name rang through his mind, and then plummeted as guilt closed a fist around it and dragged it down into his stomach. They had kissed and talked and bared their souls to each other during those two nights, and then Hamilton disappeared and Burr made no effort to contact him. What must he think? Alexander must hate him, think that Burr was simply fooling around with him, using him for a bit of taboo pleasure before tossing him aside. Pain shot through Aaron’s chest at the thought of losing Alexander’s esteem. Burr cared what everyone thought of him, cared too much really, but he realized that he would welcome the scorn of all of society, of the whole _world_ , if it meant securing Hamilton’s approval. And that realization sent a bolt of pure fear through him.

 Before Burr could spiral too deeply, the pounding of feet and the ragged breaths of the exhausted startled him from his thoughts. Just ahead of them, fifteen or twenty men broke through the tree line, some without rifles, all covered in dirt and blood. Burr pulled his horse to a stop and held up a hand.

 “Halt! Where are you retreating from? Who is your commanding officer?” Burr exclaimed at the unruly mess of men before him. Most of them didn't even spare him a glance, unable to hear anything above the hammering of their own hearts and fear. Burr kicked his horse forward and cut off one of the men--a boy, really, he couldn’t be more than sixteen.

 “Answer me, soldier! Where are you retreating from and under whose orders?!” The lad finally looked at Burr and sucked air into his lungs as he braced his hands on his knees.

 “We come--from--from Richmond Hill, s-sir,” he gasped, “Part of the militia. Ordered to fight under Colonel Silliman.”

 “So why aren’t you doing so?” Burr asked tersely.

 “Completely overrun. Sir. Bloody Lobsterbacks everywhere, we were all _dying_ . There was so many--I couldn’t--The noise, _the screaming_ \--”

 “Get a hold of yourself soldier! Now look at me,” Burr said, lowering his voice slightly, “Is Colonel Silliman retreating?”

 “No. He refused. Trying to hold position, but it’s madness, they’re all going to die--”

 “How many men are under him?” Burr asked.

 “The whole brigade. 2000 men.”

 Burr swore under his breath and the boy, taking that as a dismissal, ran after the remains of his militia. Aaron’s mind spun as he forced himself to take a deep breath. He couldn’t take his company to aid Silliman, he’d be disobeying orders and exposing them to a slaughter, and he certainly couldn’t take the New York Company as most of them were dead on their feet. He swore again.

 “Alright!” he said, wheeling his horse around, “Sargent Ainsworth, Captain Hayes, you will ride with me to Colonel Silliman to offer assistance and try and persuade him to retreat. Lieutenant Heuston, you will continue to lead the rest of this company as well as the New York Company to the main body of the Army.”

 “I’m coming with you,” a voice cut in. Burr jerked his head around and found himself staring into Hamilton’s burning eyes.

 “Al--Captain Hamilton. That is not necessary, and your men need you.” Burr mentally berated himself for the brief stutter.

 “With respect, Sir, your men seem to have this retreat well in hand. I would be more useful if I were to accompany you,” Hamilton declared, chin jutted into the air. Burr studied him for a moment, but knowing Hamilton, and knowing that they didn’t have the time to sit here and argue back and forth, he relented with a nod of his head before turning his horse around and riding towards Richmond Hill.

 They arrived at the half constructed fort Silliman and his men were entrenched at and staunchly defending, despite being obviously overwhelmed. Burr uttered a low oath; the fort and men would fall within the hour if they did not retreat. Burr spurred his horse on towards where he could see the Colonel observing the slaughter with a spyglass and yelling orders to the men around him.

 “Major Aaron Burr, Sir,” he said, after he dismounted his horse and saluted.

 “What is it?” Silliman growled, mouth tight as he continued to glare through the spyglass.

 “Sir, I was with my company and the Provisional New York Artillery Company when we came across a group of militiamen claiming they had orders to fight under you here but had retreated when they were overwhelmed.”

 “Bloody cowards,” the Colonel spat, “I ordered that every man stand his ground and pray for immortal glory. If I catch those men I’ll have them tried as deserters for disobeying my direct orders.”

 “I am not arguing that they were right to disobey orders and flee, but Sir--” here Burr took a deep breath, “Would it not be better to order a strategic retreat so that these men can fight another day for the Cause, rather than be slaughtered here on this battlefield when the main army is already in retreat? There is nothing to be gained on this field but death.” At this the spyglass clenched in Silliman’s hands snapped close and the Colonel looked at Burr for the first time.

 “I have received no orders to retreat and I will not abandon my post. _Some_ men may care more about saving their own skins than following orders and upholding their honor, but I assure you sir, _I_ am not one of those men,” Silliman finished, jaw clenched and shoulders back. Burr felt himself shrink at the clear reprimand and attack on his military and personal honor.

 “With all due respect, Colonel Silliman, the reason you have received no orders to retreat is because the whole army has been thrown into chaos. Everything is being done to restore order and the chain of command, but the fact remains that it has splintered and General Washington is relying on each of his commanding officers to exercise their own judgement to ensure the survival of as many men as possible,” Hamilton had stepped forward from where he had stood behind Burr and now gesticulated with barely controlled anger.

 “Excuse me if I don’t take orders and tactical advice from a _captain_ of a provisional force who looks as if he was weaned off his mother yesterday,” Silliman retorted. Hamilton stiffened and a rigid calm descended over him. Burr could see anger burning in the way he clenched his jaw and his right hand gripped the pommel of his sword. And it was at seeing Hamilton’s example, at seeing how he stood up to a Colonel twice his age when he believed himself right, and hearing the Colonel’s insulting and dismissive words, that Burr felt that same anger blaze to life in his gut and scorch its way through his throat and onto his tongue. He scarcely even noticed the officers of the brigade who had began to gather around.

 “If you remain here, you and the men who survive will be taken prisoner by nightfall, if you aren’t all hung immediately like dogs. It would be better for half of the brigade to fall in a strategic retreat than for all of them to be slaughtered or taken to rot in a dungeon just because of the pride of one man!” Burr had stepped forward so he was face to face with Silliman and refused to lower his eyes, “Sir,” he added on, intentionally late.

 “You will return to your company, Major,” was all Silliman said before turning away. Burr stood there for a split second, chest heaving. Then he saluted with a cold “Sir” and turned on heel, and mounted his horse. Ainsworth, Hayes, and Hamilton all followed suit, though Hamilton immediately moved next to Burr and hissed out between his teeth,

 “What the hell was that?! You’re just going to give up and let all those men die because of _his_ arrogance and--”

 “Shut up, Alexander.”

 Hamilton stared at him, pure surprise written almost comically on his face. Burr let a slight smirk curl his lip and winked at Alexander before spurring his horse and leading them all quickly away. Hamilton fell into line and made no attempt to say any more.

 After a few minutes of galloping away, Burr abruptly stopped.

 “This should be far enough. The three of you stay here, I’ll be back,” he said.

 “The hell do you have planned, Sir?” Ainsworth asked with a grin. Burr just smiled back, met Alexander’s eyes for a brief second in which Hamilton seemed to be carefully analyzing him, and then galloped back towards Silliman and his men.

 As he reached the fort again, he began yelling,

 “Retreat! Orders to retreat!”

The men who had just observed their commander rebuff him at the suggestion of doing such mere minutes ago stopped and glanced between him and the Colonel in confusion.

 “What the devil is the meaning of this?” Silliman exclaimed when Burr reached him, out of breath.

 “I was returning to the main body when we intercepted one of His Excellency’s aides headed this way with orders to retreat. A Colonel Grayson, I believe. His horse had been rendered partially lame, so I offered to deliver the orders, Sir” Burr answered, making sure he looked positively earnest and out of breath. Silliman studied him for second and seemed to believe him as he began relaying the orders to the officers around him. Burr suppressed a grin.

 “Thank you, Major Burr.”

 A clear dismissal if he had ever heard one. Burr saluted and clicked his tongue, urging the poor exhausted animal beneath him back into a gallop. He slowed once he was out of sight of the fort, though kept up a quick enough pace so it was only a couple minutes before he reached where the three men waited for him.

 “Colonel Silliman has ordered his men to retreat,” Burr announced, schooling his features to hide the slight smugness he felt. (While he believed he had the right to be smug in this instance, he also knew it wasn’t good for his men to see him taking pleasure in tricking a superior officer.) Ainsworth let out a loud laugh as he remounted his horse and Hayes shook his head in amazement.

 “Just how did you manage that, Sir?” he asked. Burr didn’t answer for a minute, digging his heels in so his mount sped up enough to take the lead.

 “I told him that orders had been given to retreat and we had intercepted the aide, whose horse was unfortunately partially lame from a recent battle, sent to deliver them. Luckily I know one of Washington’s aides, and I knew his name was one the Colonel would also be familiar with.” Ainsworth let out another loud laugh and Hayes gave a low whistle. Burr couldn’t help but glance at Alexander to see his reaction. Hamilton had his eyes fixed on him, but his features were carefully schooled into a blank expression so Burr had no idea what he thought of his trickery. Burr felt his stomach tighten even as he insisted in his mind that he didn’t need validation or any such thing from Hamilton.

 

( _Oh God, had he ever wanted anything more?_ )

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided to essentially fuck historical accuracy because no matter how much research I did, I kept coming up with completely different stories of the events of this day. So I took the parts I liked best from the two main versions and slapped them together into the shit you just read.
> 
> 1\. Colonel Silliman was a real colonel and was most likely in charge of a detachment of troops at Richmond Hill, or it was possibly at another location. Again, any research I did only confused me fucking more. Burr and a couple men did ride to this guy (or it might've been Henry Knox but??????) and convince him to retreat. In one story, Burr was just super convincing, and in the other, he tricked Silliman as I wrote. What he says to Silliman after Ham's outburst is pretty close to what (according to one source) he said that day.  
> 2\. Idk if Silliman was as big of a dick as I made him here, it was just conducive to the story...so sorry Silliman if you were actually a cool dude, I'm all researched out.  
> 3\. After getting the Silliman to retreat, Burr and the couple dudes with him ran into some Redcoats and very valiantly fought them off, but I'm so fucking done with battle scenes so we're not gonna do that. The next chapter will actually be angsty, emotional, romantic shit, which is what I wanted to write in the first place. So maybe anyone still reading this won't have to wait two months or however long its been. Or maybe you will, I'm a lazy bitch.
> 
> Kudos and comments (especially comments, give me that sweet sweet validation please) are greatly appreciated!!!!!!! And will motivate me to write and get the next chapter up sooner!!!!!


End file.
